


Until Daybreak

by ninaaavan



Category: Mamamoo, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Smoking cigarettes will kill u but u knew that, Smut, This Is A Multi Mess, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaaavan/pseuds/ninaaavan
Summary: Club Sin is a seedy strip joint in a run-down district of the city. There are always plans of urban renewal that get shut down for the displacement and gentrification they'll cause. Kris Wu makes his profit off of it and if the City takes it, he stands to make more so he sits pretty no matter what.Hwasa makes sure everyone stays in line-- both the girls on the stage and the hands of the men patroning the club.Min Yoongi, a.k.a Suga, facilitates most of the drug trading throughout the district. Rumor had it that he'd brought himself up the ranks of the gang by killing his predecessors and bringing business from Daegu into Seoul. But that's just hearsay. It isn't often that he's seen without Jeon Jungkook, his security. Despite the man's lack of age, he makes up for it in strength and the experiences from a lifetime of fighting.The Penthouse is a fine establishment in Seoul. Taemin makes sure to keep good acts coming in and out to entertain the guests when there are no girls dancing in cages.Namjoon is always in the middle of it all. The shadow that’s out until day breaks.
Relationships: Ahn Hyejin | Hwasa/Kim Namjoon | RM
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Phase I

Namjoon hates strip clubs. This one, The Penthouse, is arguably the nicest in the city but there is still a deep sense of resentment in Namjoon towards it. It’s clean and elegantly decorated, but half naked girls still dance in cages or on the stage. No amount of crystal and black-lacquer decor can change the fact that it’s a place of depravity with music too loud and bottomfeeders in suits.

His ex-best friend shoves his shoulder and he bumps into Daehyun who's on his other side. He's tempted to scold Yoongi and tell him to use his words, but it's loud in the bar and he doesn’t feel like squabbling now.

He follows the length of Yoongi's crooked finger to see where he's pointing, "that's the guy."

There's no way the target sees them from their booth. He's much too busy ogling and heckling the women dancing on stage. When he reaches up to slip money in the waistband of the dancer’s skirt, Namjoon catches a glimpse of what is probably his identifying tattoo. It’s not very pretty, but then again, nothing is anymore.

"Okay."

It takes a while for him to make any kind of move, but when he does, everything is over in an instant. The man signals someone else to meet him, gesturing with his head towards a back hallway.

Namjoon stands and waits until they’re both far enough ahead of him to avoid suspicion. He catches the door before it closes after his target. 

It’s a game of timing-- highly sensitive timing. If he’s too early, he has two potential victims. If he’s late, he misses his chance. 

One thing was for sure, he would not risk his chance if it meant he wouldn’t have to come to the strip club again. 

So he waits patiently, straining his ears to hear through the door. There’s talking and it’s some discussion of trading drugs that have been placed to give Yoongi a poor reputation. 

It’s never going to happen though. Namjoon steps in as soon as he hears a set of footsteps retreat. Judging by the conversation he’d overheard, there’s a greater than fifty-percent chance that his target is alone after the door opens. 

He strikes like a snake. Quick and with deadly intent. 

It was his target.

The man lays dead in the hallway, blood spattered on the tile floors and once white walls. He sighs. 

One less problem. He stalks to the end of the hallway and locks the exit from the inside so that the other dealer can’t get back inside. It’s a mess.

“Your problem’s solved. Sort of.” Yoongi arches an eyebrow at Namjoon’s shitty explanation, but says no more. Namjoon continues on his way out, ready to hail a cab and get back to his apartment.

Namjoon hates strip clubs.

. . .

It’s ladies night at the strip club which means Hwasa is ready to be lusted after by large quantities of ‘straight’ women all night. Many of them will be drunkenly trying to get something for free. They’ll pretend to be one hundred percent straight for their friends but there’s something in the lingering stares that Hwasa knows after a year of dancing to be homosexual. 

CL is yelling at the new girl to finish putting on her eye makeup so she can get out and work the crowd. It’s tough love, she realizes. One upon a time, she’d been the young fawn heading out onto the floor of hunters. It hadn’t taken long for her to get promoted to dancer permanently. 

Her days of working the floor were over. 

The room smells mostly of sweat and someone’s cheap, cotton candy scented body spray. She tunes out the noise and the smell, focusing her eyes in the fluorescent lighting so that she can draw on a thick line of eyeliner.

Blowing herself a kiss, she heads out to the stage, in a place where there’s only dim light.

. . .

Cities have lives of their own. Some of them are new-- bright and shiny with clean streets and planned parks. Some are aged: buildings with histories centuries old, streets walked by the greats, and culture in every nook and cranny.

Some are old: cramped streets, crumbling buildings, and outdated property uses. 

And somewhere in the city, in any city, there’s the place that was left to die. Politicians don’t represent their constituents; they only care for the district when terms like ‘urban redevelopment’ and ‘gentrification’ get thrown about. 

Everything important happens here, in this forgotten quarter, lit cheap cigarettes in the day and soaked in neon liquor at night.

. . .

Namjoon is tired. It's eleven o' clock and he's got a headache. The night isn't going to end well, he realizes when Jungkook hooks a right off the freeway and onto the main drag of Freedom Heights. 

Nothing in Freedom Heights ever ends well. The industrial section of the city that had been run down was free of one thing-- legal authority. Gangs ruled the trash-littered streets and managed the businesses in the area. 

The black, armored SUV rolls to a stop in front of a two-story building cramped between two one-story houses with boarded up windows. A neon pink sign advertises a pole dancer flexing her leg. The sign on the building reads Club Sin. 

"Do you hate me?" Namjoon asks Yoongi, staring at him in disbelief. 

Jungkook turns around from the driver's seat with a stale face, "get out of the car."

_ Fuck Jungkook. _

"Is this payback for what happened at The Penthouse?" Namjoon presses.

"Yeah. Now get out of the car. He's in there."

Namjoon rolls his eyes, but he exits the SUV anyways. He knew he shouldn’t have left a mess at The Penthouse; knew Yoongi would get him back.

When did he turn into Yoongi's lackey? Jin's going to have to make things up to him. 

The neon lights in the area buzz and it sets Namjoon's nerves on fire. He just wants to get things over with.

The bouncer to the strip joint steps in front of him, but Namjoon sends him a glare and flashes both his gun and his tattoos. 

The security guy steps out of his way looking somewhat timid despite his larger size and stature. Namjoon is not small himself, but his glare and the promise of pain inked into his skin is what intimidates others. 

The music in the club is all trap beats. It smells like cigarettes and marijuana. The floor is a sticky ceramic tile spotted with trash already. He kicks a cup out of his way as he heads to the bar.

He'll have to find his target and lure him out of the club. 

Kim Sung-kyo owed so much money, Namjoon knew he'd never be able to pay it off. Not without trading secrets and stealing-- which would create more trouble than the money was worth. 

The man is alert and surrounded by people that Namjoon doesn't recognize, so he sits at the bar and nurses a glass of whiskey in wait. 

Back in the day, he and Yoongi used to do things like this together. Now the older just hooks people and leaves them hung out to dry while he relies on Yongguk to send others to clean up his messes. 

He turns towards the stage but keeps an eye out for Sung-kyo. 

Women never really held Namjoon's interest for long, so he was surprised to find that one woman drew him in. Something about her was captivating-- maybe it was the way she moved or maybe it was her curvaceous, supple body. 

He forgets all about it the instant he sees Sung-kyo move from the corner of his eye. The man disappears into the bathroom and the dancers trade spots as the song ends. 

It’s a lot of commotion all at once, but as long as he can keep his eye on the bathroom then it should be fine. 

When the target comes out again, he heads back to his friends, only stopping to cat call dancers. 

Namjoon stays planted in the vinyl seat of the booth with his half-drunk bottle of whatever beer was on special. It’s more for show than enjoyment anyways.

His entertainment source is gone for now. Pretending to be interested in the other dancers is the only thing he can manage to keep up the pretense.

The strippers on stage all seem to end their performances, manicured hands picking bills up off the stage in a sexy-capitalistic manner (if it can be considered as such) and Namjoon stands, ready to just slip something in Sung-kyo’s drink and call it a night.

It seems, though, that Sung-kyo spots him. He makes a break for it, speeding away from his spot in front of the stage.

This time he heads down the back hall. 

Namjoon trails behind him.

  
  
  


. . .

Her heels click on the last step and she rounds the corner into the hallway. A figure sprints past her towards the private rooms. 

_ Must be in a hurry _ she snorts. Men are pigs.

She struts down the hallway, trying to gather enough of her stage persona to pull off the sexy lingerie that she was given for her next dance.

Hyejin knows she’s due back on stage any minute now, as part of the rotation, but she doesn’t want to go back out on the floor yet. It’s Thursday night which means the cover fee is lowered and the riff raff that flows in is extra handsy. Especially the closeted women in the crowd.

So she waits in the hallway where it’s safe until the very last second.

The door to the back busts open and she blinks in shock before quickly relaxing her face to a neutral expression. 

Before she can open her mouth to tell the guy to get out, he’s speaking. 

“Did you just see a guy run through here?”

Hwasa pauses and looks at the guy strange. “Yeah?” Come to think of it, she did see a guy book it down the hallway. She glances over her shoulder, she’d thought he was just headed towards a private room, but there was an emergency exit that way.

“Which way’d he go?” The man’s so impatient and she fights the urge to scoff or roll her eyes at him. Especially since she can see his tattoos. She knows exactly what they mean and she won’t make that mistake again.

“Well he probably ran out the back.”

“Fuck.” He groans. “You know him?” He questions. Hyejin thinks about it. She hadn’t recognized him when he was sprinting past her. “Kim Sung-kyo?” That name rings a bell.

“Him? Yeah, why do you wanna know?” She’s surprised that she knows his name but he’s a regular with Kang Seulgi so she’s heard all about him. What he does that warrants discussion is unknown, but Seulgi never stops running her mouth, so she knows all about him. 

"Where did he go?"

“Probably home if he’s not headed out of town.” She rolls her eyes thinking about it but doesn’t let her guard down in front of this man. He’s clearly no saint. She can tell based on his appearance. He could have rivalled her brother back in the day.

“Where’s his house?”

“Why should I tell you?” She fires back, now offended at his impatience. This whole exchange is taking too long.

Namjoon grits his teeth.

"You help me, I'll help you get promoted."

She sends him an ugly look, "what d’you mean promoted?"

There is no getting promoted from a dancer. Not really. An increase in pay means a lot of things, and promotion isn't usually one of them. 

"I'll get you a spot at The Penthouse."

She thinks it over quickly. With what she would make there, she could afford to swallow the cost of missing a night in the pig pen. 

“And all I have to do is tell you where he stays?” She cocks an eyebrow, taking in the face of the man. 

“Yeah.”

“Deal.”

"Okay. Come with me, don't make it look easy."

“Hold up, you didn’t say I had to go with you.”

“How’m I supposed to know you’re not lying?”

“Why the fuck would I cover for him?” She looks disgusted at the prospect of it. It might be time for her to walk away from this guy. He just might be a weirdo despite his initial promise.

“I don’t have time for this,” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Come on. I won’t let you get hurt.”

He grabs her wrist in a grip that only looks tight before hauling her out the back door and.

Hwasa struggles to wrench her forearm free from Namjoon's hold. 

"Is this guy botherin' you?" the security guard from earlier questions. 

When did he get so brave?

"I'm good, Matt," she mutters.

He nods apprehensively and goes back to checking IDs. 

Namjoon lets go of her arm, but makes it clear through his facial expressions that she has to get into the SUV. 

They slide in after one another. 

"What the fuck?" Yoongi queries in shock. "I told you to bring me a body and I  _ didn't _ mean a whore."

"I'm not a whore, fuckface," Hwasa spits. She pulls the silk robe she’s wearing tighter around herself but keeps her expression mean.

"Calm down, will you? She knows where Kim went. He saw me coming before I could get to him." Namjoon can’t muster anything beyond exasperation. They’re wasting time and energy by arguing and he’d much rather be at home.

“Where to?”

“Hook a left on Broad Avenue. Hey, you got a jacket or something?”

Namjoon glances at her before shrugging off his coat. She probably is cold in her lingerie and heels. The silk robe does little to provide warmth for her.

She leans forward to the center console and turns the heat up, even after she pulls the coat on. Her small frame swims in the fabric.

Yoongi ignores her and Jungkook, ever the sheep, does the same. Namjoon can’t believe there was ever a time Jungkook looked up to him. He’d thought he was a cute kid. Like a puppy. 

Not anymore.

. . .

Not every moment was spent in darkness. There were good times, too.

Favorite songs played on the radio and packs of gum for train rides and bus trips. Books loaned from the school library and coloring in art class. 

The warmth of a hand in hers, city lights blurred as the car rushes down the street, fuzzy highs taking her away.

Hyejin could recall those times and think of how she could have been considered normal once. 

Now she rides in the back of armored cars with strange men at the promise of a promotion. At least if they killed her she’d be dead.

CL would probably be mad for a few hours that she had missed her stage but the new girl would jump at a chance to take her spot. The club would make their cut and her reward would be in the form of a promotion. 

And if he didn't stay true to his word (because men seldom do), then at least she got a night off when she was supposed to wear her least favorite outfit.

. . .

"He's not here." Yoongi’s eyes are narrowed critically. Namjoon surveys the apartment for any signs of movement or hints to where Sung-kyo would go. It’s drab and the furniture is minimal so there’s not many places to look in the one-bedroom.

"I can see that, dumbass."

"Who hurt you?" Jungkook questions, side-eyeing her. 

Namjoon stops the conversation before it can get any worse. It’s best to redirect everyone’s attention to the task at hand.

"Where else would he be?"

She shrugs, "I don't know. But I held up my end of the deal, so bring me home now."

“Yeah, yeah.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. 

“Let’s go. I’ll find him tomorrow.”

They exit the apartment and head back for the car. 

Namjoon leads the way, mind racing as he considers the possibilities of what’s to come.

A movement outside catches his attention and he takes off after a figure heading into the alley next to the crumbling brick building. 

Hyejin isn’t stupid, so she hangs back in the doorway of the building. 

Yoongi stands with her, shielded by Jungkook. 

She stays quiet this time.

“I’ll check the car,” Jungkook announces after clearing the street for signs of imminent danger. 

Yoongi tsks after he’s gone. “This is so much more trouble than he’s worth.”

Curiosity prickles at the tip of Hyejin’s tongue, but she knows better than to ask. Ignorance is bliss and finding anything out would be like agreeing to die. 

She favors watching the manchild drop onto the ground and check under the car. He checks the wheel wells, too. At least he’s thorough, though to be honest, it’s unlikely that Sung-kyo is smart enough to have planted explosives or a tracker on the vehicle. Not only would it be difficult to install in such a short time, Sung-kyo lacked all the means for such a trick.

. . .

Her shitty apartment wasn't a home. It wasn't light, the heater was busted, and she lived alone. 

But it was hers. 

It wasn't quite soothing to be there. Something about it made it feel more like a cage than a home. She felt imprisoned there, like she had no other options. That was, kind of, true. She always had options-- they just weren't feasible.

Still, she did what she could to make the place tolerable. Hid her prized possessions in her closet, put away her clothes. Let empty perfume bottles and alcohol bottles be the decorations because they were better than leaving the surfaces bare. She hung a few posters on the walls to cover major cracks in the paint and provide some colors in the room. 

The duvet cover she had was second-hand from CL, but it was warm and still in good shape so she didn’t complain, even if paisley was the farthest thing from her style. 

When she gets dropped off at her apartment, she really wants to take a drink of something.

Anything.

But she stopped that a long time ago. There wasn’t a drop of alcohol in her house.

It had been a  _ long _ day though so she caves and buys a forty from the corner shop, just for today.

It helps her unwind, shoulders untensing.

Drinks used to ease the slide of the pole. No. Wait, that's not what she wants to say. 

Back when she started pole dancing and stripping for money, she used to rely on drinks to get her through the night. It was a social lubricant unlike the lotion in the backroom. It made it easier, more bearable to get on stage and bare herself in front of strangers. 

The liquid made her movements more fluid. 

It took its toll on her body. The empty calories adding on around her hips and stomach, and mornings where she felt dehydrated in her skull were enough to drive her away from the drink. 

Giving up didn't come easy, but it was worth it, especially as she built a natural resistance to the negative feelings that came with doing her job. 

Sex work wasn't easy, but at least she didn't actually have to sleep with the bosses or the clientele. She had that much going for her. 

Maybe there was a time when she thought dancing would be fun. That was probably back in the days when she and Hyolyn would study and crack jokes about giving up to do something else, like dance. It was a far away picture then, something taboo that felt fun to joke about it. 

She wasn't confident enough for it in the beginning. The alcohol helped. 

On ViewTube there were two Thai strippers that posted videos on the topic of dancing. She watched them religiously and took notes in hopes of getting better. Maybe if she did, she could get a job at a better place than Club Sin. 

Before long, she's the best dancer in the joint and somehow one of the most senior dancers. She keeps the younger, newer girls in line when CL, her boss, isn't around. 

And if, by some miracle, the promised promotion went through, she’d be on to bigger and better things. Nicer makeup and cleaner facilities. Ladies nights when tips were large enough to quell the swirling rage inside of her at being touched by other women, women who think they're better to her. Entitled. 

At least she hadn’t ended up dead.


	2. Phase II

Hyejin doesn’t like to recall that defining and formative day, alienating and estranging as it was. Creating fire must have felt the same way. Illuminating and progressing, yet disconcerting as a certain truth was proved to be something other, false yet familiar. For with the establishment of fire, of light in the dark, came the extinguish of darkness, that all encompassing knowledge was suddenly turned inside out, emptied. What was real and what wasn’t? How could she ever go back to the darkness, knowing that light existed, could be created? And how could she look at that light and cherish it when it destroyed everything she believed to be before?

The buzzer to the apartment rings and she checks to see who it is with the old landline that's connected to the speakers by the buttons. The phone is yellowed and the ‘call’ on the button has vanished with every press of a finger so only an oily spot is left.  
"Ms. Ahn?" A voice crackled through the speaker.  
Hyejin was instantly wary and narrowed her eyes as she tried to place the voice. It was a new one, something unfamiliar, even if she extrapolated what it sounded like with the clarity of real life, not spoken through a tin can line. She confirmed it was her hesitantly.  
"My name is Mr. Chwe," most definitely not his real name, she decided then and there. And if it was, then he wasn’t smart, but it was bad practice to assume others weren’t fully aware of what they were doing. "I have some news regarding your brother. May I come up?"  
The buzzer sounds again as she hangs up the phone. The chain lock clicks on the frame.  
She opens the door for him and they sit at the kitchen table.

She thinks she blacked out.  
There weren't any tears and she can't remember any of Mr. Chwe's words when he informed her of the regrettable death of her older brother.  
The Ahn Seunghoon she knew and loved had been dead for years. The version of him that died was the one that left her homeless at eighteen, the one that left her with his best friend at nineteen and no good-bye.  
It wasn't a surprise to the twenty year old.  
Mourning him felt like a chore; she’d done it once before.

. . . 

The card he left her has a date and time on it. She doesn't know where she's supposed to go, but out of nervousness she dresses anyways.  
She doesn't tell Shownu where she's going, not that he's present anyways. He'd been AWOL for two nights and came home smelling like another woman's perfume days prior.  
As long as she profits, she ignores it. He's good enough to her. She doesn't deserve much anyways.  
The buzzer rings promptly at the time on the card and she answers the phone to find she's being beckoned to the street.  
A black car with windows tinted darker than the legal limit is waiting.  
Mr. Chwe steps out of the driver's seat and opens the door to the backseat's leather interior.  
Hyolyn is in the backseat, arms folded over her chest and expression pinched. Her eyebrow is lifted and her lips are twisted up in a way that can only mean she's pissed. Hwasa is not pleased to be here either.  
She slides into the backseat, swallowing her fear.  
No looks or greetings or other forms of acknowledgement are shared between Hyolyn and Hyejin.  
This is the woman she used to consider a friend and a family member.  
She doesn't look much different than she used to. Maybe a little older, though it hasn't been but two years. Weight gained, but she’s not eighteen anymore. Her hair is roughly the same length that it used to be and still has a wave to it. The color is still a natural dark brown, so she still presumably isn't a fan of dying hair. 

It didn’t matter much anymore. Not when she knew now that she’d been living a lie then, living one now, albeit with a better storyteller. 

. . .

Namjoon is bored. Yongguk’s office is boring. There’s nothing exciting on the walls, beige wallpaper and a print of that one painting of dogs playing poker. Does Yongguk even like dogs? He barely exists outside of the office, yet everything in it is tacky and commonplace. The desk had seen better days and the papers are all stained with rings of coffee or other liquids. It’s clean enough, though. Nothing out of place, no information to be gathered just by looking around.  
Namjoon knows. He’s spent a great deal of time perched in the cheap leather seat across the desk, eyes scanning the room as his superior takes a phone call in front of him. Maybe the point of the office decor was to be so bland that no one ever questioned it. There were other ways to accomplish that, like stereotypical art of a sunset or the sky, yet 1930’s Tennesse Williams in a Streetcar seemed to be his taste. That was Namjoon’s least favorite play.  
The phone meets the receiver and Namjoon’s eyes jump to his superior.  
"Per your request to not be sent out with Yoongi," Yongguk starts, "I'm sending you to work with Wen Junhui."  
Wen Junhui, Namjoon wrinkles his nose at the mention of the young man. Wen Junhui is a snake. A slimy little slug. Maybe Yoongi wouldn’t have been such a bad option after all. What more was he than a pretty face with a built in translator? He didn’t exactly have skills outside of fighting and maybe charming people but even that was a stretch.  
"Why?"  
“Because he needs someone to track and trap a traitor. Who better than you?”  
He knows what Yongguk means. It registers quickly-- the way traumas do. He’ll have time to unpack that later.  
A traitor-- someone rejecting and defying everything they stood for all at once.  
He could scoff. Everything they stood for.  
Brotherhood- maybe Namjoon understood that once. But everything comes to an end and even loyalty has a price.

He realigns his jaw and stands without a word, not taking the bait, but grabbing the folder Yongguk hands out to him.  
Once he’s in the lobby of the building, a cigarette is already hanging from his mouth, holding fire until the lighters out. 

. . .

Whoever mapped the floorplan of the Sin deserved a demotion. Then again, it was probably Kris Wu, the word seedy embodied.  
And if she thought hard, this place probably didn’t start out as a strip club. Maybe a warehouse or something.  
Anyhow, the stage is built onto a wall that doesn’t connect to the back room. Every dancer has a trepidatious walk from the back to the stage, thirty-seven feet spanning a pit of despair and grabby hands.  
Seldom do people actually stop the women, but today there’s a tight grip on her wrist. The guy attached to her wrist sways and slurs.  
This man is too intoxicated to function, Hwasa decides as she throws her elbow back into the face of the drunk.  
He’s mumbling about her brother. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last. At least he’s easily taken care of.  
No one even has to help her out. Someone just has to collect him and throw him out on the street as she retires to the performer’s only area of the club.

. . .

A group of children screech in the play yard of the school, surely enjoying games of tag during their recess. Colors streak by as they run, bundles of brightly colored and patterned clothing marking where one child starts and the next begins. The teacher watches from a bench where she chats to a colleague. The man is more interested in watching two young boys by the chain link fence that keeps them in.  
Hwasa wonders why.  
Kids are scary, yet she’s no stranger to them.  
The worst those young boys could try to do was jump the fence or lob something over it.  
She’s sure they’re not up to anything. They don’t look mischievous or naughty as she passes by on her way from the grocery store.  
Cracked pavement makes it so that she has to glance down with every few steps she takes, a precaution so that she doesn’t fall. Falling and ending her career (occupation, really) as a dancer would be unfortunate. The few groceries in her shopping bag and the lack of cash in her wallet attests to that thought. 

. . .

Something about Junhui’s face pisses him off. Why does he look like that? Like he’s better than you and in on a secret, it’s clear as day to Namjoon that he’s nothing more than a snail who does his job and doesn’t leave a slimy trail after him like his predecessors.  
Jun is tall yet scrawny-- or maybe it’s better to say he’s not built. He's not a physically imposing man, but his security guard, Lucas, is. He looks young, though-- like he hasn’t been properly broken in and exposed to the evils of the world. Namjoon feels sorry for the young man. Seldom do his kind last long in this kind of business.  
"I was expecting a shipment of firearms, but someone tipped off customs."  
Namjoon supposes that Junhui knows who did it if he is here.  
"And?"  
Lucas eyes Namjoon but stays quiet. When he does speak, it's only in a quiet mix of languages dominated by Mandarin.  
Junhui cuts his eyes to Lucas and then back to Namjoon.  
"My guy is home. This is your target."  
Namjoon accepts a red folder with a gilded square on it. Jun’s wrists stay covered by long sleeves and his hands are wrapped. Maybe the security guard was partially for show.  
There was a time before Jun sat in warehouses all day. Namjoon thinks he respected him more then, but maybe that was because he didn’t have that damn self-important expression.  
"He ran for me once; he was a decent runner. Sold me out to pay a debt. By chance my partner held half the shipment so it's not a total loss. I don't want him dead, just in pain until we get back to Shanghai."  
Namjoon nods, flicking through the folder. It makes sense that he wants to keep him alive. Hurt him, find out some info, whatever it is, Namjoon doesn’t really care.  
“You’ll be working with Sehun.”  
Abruptly, Namjoon looks up. And there he is.  
“Sorry I’m late. Did I miss anything?”  
God, Namjoon hates Sehun. The guy is a total dunce. It’s a miracle he’s still alive after so many years on the job.  
So Junhui explains again.  
“The8 wants to--”  
“The8? What the fuck kind of name is that?"  
Namjoon could kill Sehun right now. The meeting could have been over by now if he’d shown up on time and it could be over sooner if he would just keep his stupid mouth shut.  
“Evidently that’s not his real name,” Lucas rolls his eyes. Perhaps Namjoon likes this young man. Perhaps he’s not so bad after all.  
Junhui clears his throat, “as I was saying, our torture specialist wants a go at him to see what else he may have divulged.”  
“Sure. Fine. I’ll just knock him out or drug him and get him back here.” Sehun’s attitude is far too breezy for the nature of the storm.  
Namjoon has weathered enough hurricanes to expect what’s coming. Besides, if the leadership thought things were going to be that easy, they’d send Sehun by himself. His involvement in the snail race meant that the task was a long run and not a sprint. 

. . .

Between Namjoon and Sehun, Namjoon definitely has the upper hand. He’s intelligent, for one. Sehun maybe has more brawn, but it’s not a significant difference. It’s not like either of them lacks in skill, though finesse is another story.  
The outlook, when they start their mission together, is positive and Namjoon hopes it will pass by quickly, but nothing ever does so he quashes that hope and wishes with all his might that things will be tolerable by his standards.  
Quick work by two sets of steady hands is naturally too smooth of an assumption to make. Namjoon knows he’s fucked when they start driving and Sehun throws on spy movie theme music trap remixes.  
Of course, when the two go to find the rat, he’s not at his house. So Sehun turns their car around to his next known hideout without a word, bass-heavy songs still playing.  
It’s all merry and dandy until Namjoon recognizes where they’re going. He flips off the radio and tenses his leg muscles in a slight stretch.  
“Please tell me we’re not going to a strip club.”  
“We’re going to a strip club,” Sehun lets out with a glance at Namjoon. An excited grin lights up his handsome face. “And you and me get to break some skulls.”  
God, Namjoon is too smart for this. 

Namjoon sits in the car with Sehun.  
Sehun blows out a long breath of air.  
"So..." he trails off.  
Namjoon says nothing. He doesn't have to.  
"You listen to music?"  
Namjoon cuts his eyes to Sehun.  
"Put on what you want," he says after a moment's consideration. He'll tolerate whatever music so long as it gets the other man to shut up. “As long as it’s not those trap remixes again.”  
The air coming from the vents is too warm. He flicks the knob to a cooler temperature and sits back in his chair, keeping his eyes trained on the front door of the strip club.  
“Chanyeol texted me he’s still in his spot.”  
By some stroke of luck, Chanyeol had been at the strip club. Yeah, he shouldn't call it luck, really. Namjoon usually didn’t care what people did in their spare time, but this was a time he was glad Sehun paid attention to his friends.  
An hour passes and Namjoon rubs at his eyes. They’re dry and they itch from staring at the poorly lit door. The vapor of Sehun’s electronic cigarette probably isn’t helping.  
“Chanyeol said he’s got a guy with him. Looks like the dude from that picture of him by the dock.” Sehun puts his phone down and shifts so he’s sitting up in his chair instead of slumped back with his eyes closed.“Let me take a turn, buddy.”  
A nap sounds tempting right now.  
Namjoon sighs, “just don’t let them out of the building.”  
Ten minutes later, before he’d even fallen asleep, Sehun is shaking him awake and launching himself out of his own car seat. “Yeol said we gotta move.”  
Namjoon barrels into the strip club, slowing down only once he gets through the entrance. His eyes scan the room.  
Sehun grunts next to him, “he said he was leaving. I thought he meant our guy.”  
It’s annoying, but whatever.  
Since they’re in, they might as well stake things out and take a more direct approach. Namjoon would probably kill himself if he had to sit in the car any longer.  
The two of them take an inconspicuously placed seat at a table on the floor.  
Sehun’s elbow meets Namjoon’s ribs, “I think ole girl has the hots for ya.”  
Namjoon wants to scoff and roll his eyes, but he holds his disdain in and instead glances at the stage where Sehun is gesturing. On the stage, with one leg wrapped around the pole, is the stripper from however long ago, Hwasa. It takes a moment for him to realize that he’s staring at her black leather and ribbon clad body instead of her heavily made up eyes.  
It’s like she’s trying to tell him something without the use of words, something subtle  
He follows her gaze and then it clicks.  
“He’s here.”  
“Who’s here? I don’t see our guy.”  
“A loose end,” Namjoon grumbles, knowing he can make short work of the guy. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Don’t get killed.”  
He means it, but really it wouldn’t be the worst thing if it were to happen. 

. . .

There’s a mirror in front of her and she looks into before standing and heading out to the corridor.  
“Yo, hot shot. You gonna get me that job or what?” Hwasa is a lot of things, Namjoon has realized. She definitely is not someone that’s afraid to speak her mind, that’s for sure. Especially because she’s learned that the man before her isn’t a hot headed gunner like some of the gangsters she’s met before.  
"I’m working on it.”  
She side eyes him. Namjoon looks tired, eyes bland, face uncontrolled in a bored expression.  
“You better be. I found that guy for you.” Hwasa turns her nose up and spins on her heel, stalking to the stage. Effortlessly, gracefully balanced on her heels, sexy. 

He’s got to go. Now’s his chance.

. . .

Yongguk’s office is the same as always. Clean but cluttered with papers that haven’t been filed.  
Namjoon sits with his hand over his mouth, elbow planted on the chair arm. He doesn’t want to be here. He stares at the wall.  
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Yongguk questions Sehun, deep voice eerily calm.  
“He didn’t look so nimble--” The younger is quick to shut up when he sees the glare the older man is shooting at him.  
“And you? Where were you?” Yongguk turns his cold rage on Namjoon, ignoring Sehun’s excuses. He’s seen the videos surely.  
Namjoon doesn’t feel right answering, so he stays silent for now only turning his head to his superior. Sehun doesn’t need to know Yoongi’s business.  
Maybe he can explain himself after Sehun leaves. Maybe Yongguk will never get the answer. Maybe it was rhetorical in the first place. 

. . .

The air in China smells different than it does in Seoul, less familiar somehow. The underlying sources of the smell are the same. It's all people, restaurants, industries.  
People don't look at him for long, Sehun either. Lucas or Yukhei or Xuxi, or whatever his name is, guides them around the city. First they need to eat, then they'll pick up a car and head to a warehouse. 

From the passenger seat of the car, Namjoon slides his hand into his pocket. He’s disinterested, more or less, in what’s going on.  
"Let's get rid of him. We have the chance."  
"They want him alive. Don't forget."  
Namjoon had forgotten.  
He grits his jaw, annoyed at himself. "Right. So, how do we extract him, then?" He thinks out loud.  
"Well," Sehun starts and Namjoon regrets it, "I vote we call Junhui and ask him for backup."  
“It’ll take too long.”  
Fuck it. He’ll do it himself, however it has to be done. If themate or whatever his name is doesn’t get to torture him, what does he care? It’ll end his own suffering sooner.  
Guns blazing, and more reckless than he’s been in ages, Namjoon sneaks his way into the building. There hasn’t been any movement in a while, but they still don’t know how many people are inside.  
The door is heavy and he does his best to shut it gently. Sehun’s wide eyes and the ‘abort mission’ motion he’s making are the last thing he sees of the outside.

. . .

“Hwasa,” CL calls.  
Hwasa. The name was a reminder of better times. When things had looked promising. It stung to think about it, but the nickname was the only one she had ever had and so when they told her to write a stage name down on her employment papers, she wrote those five letters.  
It was the only thing she could think of at the time.  
There are days when she wishes she had thought of something, literally anything else to scribble down on the line. Her first pet and the street she grew up on. Being called something stupid like Princess would have been better.  
Ironically, she thought that maybe things would get better. Maybe the nickname would bring her the same kind of enjoyment that it once had. Her new co-workers snuffed that dream out quick.  
With stage names like Cherry and Sugar (distastefully unoriginal, really) and personalities centered around eating the young, they were quick to discourage her.  
She knew it was stupid, but her brain had thought of it in a moment when she let herself hope for better days. Calling herself Hwasa again at least provided her with anonymity and some kind of sick familiarity.  
“Hey!” CL snaps her fingers in front of her face to get her attention. There’s no time to be living in the past. Not when there’s money to be made.  
“Yeah?”  
“There’s a new girl. I want you to teach her how to dance next week when she starts.”  
It’s a form of praise, some recognition of her skill, but it’s also an opportunity. More money for those hours of work and a chance to paint herself HBIC at the club. 

. . .

Sehun downs what’s left in his beer, “can’t believe you went in there and knocked him out like that.”  
“No one else was in there.”  
“Lucky,” Lucas comments. It’s the first he’s spoken in hours. The only other time he spoke was when he called the torture specialist and spoke only Mandarin to him. Namjoon was surprised when a man who weighed ninety-five pounds soaking wet showed up and grinned at them from beneath a fishing hat. He should really stop being surprised.  
The restaurant is hot and loud, but he can tune it out and drink beer cheap so what does it matter?  
International cell phone call rates are a bitch, whoever’s calling Namjoon so frequently will probably discover. He’d glanced at the name on the screen, and even though it was someone that didn’t need answering right away, someone who could go to other people for help, something was telling him he should pick up.  
The three men finish their meal and once outside, Namjoon steps away for a smoke and draws the plastic from his pocket to return Changkyun’s call.  
“What?”  
“Yo, you remember how we discussed upgrading cameras the other day?”  
“Yeah.”  
“Well,” Changkyun starts and Namjoon blows out a puff of smoke, knowing whatever comes next will probably mean he wants another cigarette, “I’ve got it on good word that we’ll need them sooner rather than later.”  
“How good is ‘good’?”  
“Good as gold.”  
It sounds too good to be true, but then again, this particular instance is one where high risk means high reward. The bigger they are, the harder they fall or whatever the hell it was wouldn’t mean the end of them if Changkyun did his job like his life depended on it-- Namjoon was sure he would.  
“Alright. Use that card I gave you and don’t leave a trace.”  
“Yeah, roger that.” Changkyun hangs up.  
A second cigarette is warranted considering how much money he just moved. If the kid weren’t paranoid enough for the both of them and somehow linked to a dark web genius hacker something-or-other, he’d probably smoke a third too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi from the Abgrund

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone thank my 'manager' Eira for reminding me that I wrote 80% of stories and then never finished or posted them. :)
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ninaaavan)


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